Forsaken Forborne
by WizardWYDS
Summary: A Blood Elf paladin hates the undead with every fiber of his being. When a Forsaken priest comes to his aid, he is confronted with a conundrum: what if the undead are not as bad as he imagined? BE/Undead, minor other couplings, MA. M/F, WIP
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the game that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

"Dame Auriferous?"

"Yes; she's overseeing operations based in Tranquillien."

Galen Silverdawn felt his heart sink into his shoes. Tranquillien was deep in the Ghostlands, those parts of Quel'Thalas long given up for lost to the Scourge. At its border, the silver trees of Eversong yielded to twisted perversions of themselves. Nowhere was it more pronounced than the milky river Elrendar, only a few minutes away; on one side, the golden leaves of Eversong, on the other, the gnarled skeleton trees of the Ghostlands. Galen steeled himself and pressed his fist to his chest.

"Of course, Lord Bloodvalor. I will go at once."

The dark-haired man smiled and returned the salute, and a line of concern creased his brow. "Galen."

"My lord?" The silver-haired paladin looked up at the blood knight-lord who issued his orders. For him to say anything beyond his acceptance of the mission was unusual. What he had to say must be important.

"The Ghostlands are a den of evil and temptation for us. Take care that your mind remains clear and calm, and consider especially the thirst, for it has been known to trick the minds of even the most iron-willed warrior." A soft smile touched the older paladin's face. "Auriferous can wait until the morning."

He felt slightly insulted, but realized quickly that Bloodvalor spoke only out of concern for one of his knights. He dipped his head in respect.

"Yes. Thank you, my lord."

The champion inclined his dark head and Galen was dismissed. He walked back through the Royal Exchange to the inn, ignoring the flirty innkeeper and going up to his bed before the vintner could speak. It was just as well; Galen disliked the winemaster and the way he told bawdy stories about his retreats with Lord Saltheril.

The next day, he struck out for Tranquillien, moving with focused purpose. He ignored the dragonhawks that moved through the widely-spaced trees, and dealt with the occasional springpaw if it ventured too close. He mindfully avoided the Dead Scar to the east. The earth there was scorched with the Plague of Blight, and no living thing lasted long against the ravenous Scourge that stalked its length. All the way up through Silvermoon City it stretched, a broad swath of destruction carved by Arthas' undead march from Deatholme in the southern Ghostlands.

Galen knew that even further to the south lay the Plaguelands, which separated the blood elves from the Forsaken stronghold of Lordaeron. The Blight was still horribly in evidence there, or so Bloodvalor had told him. Galen had slaughtered many humans in his time, but still felt sick at the thought of watching people, human and elven alike, die and rise up again to do the bidding of the Lich King. The being who had formerly been Arthas Menethril controlled every undead Scourge telepathically from his throne in his icy stronghold in Northrend. Galen took a cold satisfaction in killing the ravagers of Quel'Thalas. He liked to pretend that each rotted corpse that crumpled at his feet was one part of Arthas dead, one part of the Lich King that was no longer able to fight.

The waters of the river Elrendar crept lazily through its banks, lacking the hurried youth of a stream, not yet a meandering giant at the sea's edge. The bridge over it was quite passable, but Galen paused at the hollow noises his booted footsteps made against the Ghostland trees. His eyes adjusted to the constant dusk, which blanketed the land even during the day. Shadows made eerie, grasping shapes, and Galen was unsettled by the bladed darkness and the glittering eyes of toothy things in the weakened scrub that yet clung to life. He had not yet set foot on the opposite bank, but already he felt the thrum of his magic addiction growing more insistent, as if the evil things at work in these groves were already pushing at his willful control.

Some of the eversong trees had escaped the death that so many of their kind suffered, but changed instead into mighty, dark giants whose branches hung like vultures' wings over the bone-white trees underneath. Instead of succumbing to the Ghostlands' plague, they embraced it, losing the lingering blessing of the destroyed Sunwell forever. He strode forward into the withered forest, dimly phosphorescent toadstools lighting his path.

Even the lightposts were bent and gnarled by the dark energies that commanded nature there, the same energies which starved the animals of Light, the same energies which allowed, even encouraged, the harboring of the undead Scourge. Lamps were lit by faerie fire, a ghoulish blue glow that did nothing to diminish his apprehension.

Tranquillien was not far and he reached it without mishap, although he had expected a savage onslaught of horror from the moment he set foot in the Ghostlands. He saw numerous dead and undead things lying in heaps, having taken the brunt of the swallow blades wielded by Guardians. He was grateful to the blood elves that worked to keep the roads in this death trap safe, for he was not eager to begin his questing here exhausted from battles already fought.

The town itself was not more than a few elven buildings in various states of disrepair, but the rough wooden wagons and carts of intrepid vendors were circled in various places, their owners clinging to a tenuous life in the encampment. As he neared, he was horrified to see the Forsaken walking freely about the hamlet, and more confused by the fact that the blood elves he saw paid them no mind.

The Forsaken were those undead who remembered their lives before the Plague of Blight that obliterated Lordaeron. They were largely human, although he saw at least one that had been elven in life, and he knew that Sylvanas Windrunner, their Dark Lady and undead queen, had been a blood elf before Arthas killed her. All Forsaken were fiercely loyal to Sylvanas, who had helped them throw off the mind control of the Lich King.

As he neared, a warlock looked to him with eagerness in his posture, his blonde hair gathered up into a ponytail at the back of his head. "You! Have you come from Silvermoon?"

Galen was affronted by the man's lack of respect, and waited a moment before replying. "I am."

"Then the road through is safe?"

"When I passed through, it was indeed safe," Galen replied quickly, sensing that this warlock was eager for information, and hoping that it might buy his way out of the conversation at the earliest possible time.

"The High Executor will be so pleased!" the arcanist said happily, and upon learning that the paladin was on his way to the service of Dame Auriferous, tasked him with delivering the news to the High Executor Mavren.

"Sir Warlock," Galen interrupted, cutting off the torrent of speech that continuously poured from the blood elf's mouth. "Why are the Forsaken here?" The presence of undead, even those that had managed to wriggle out from under the telepathic thumb of the Lich King, was disturbing and unsettling to him, and he demanded an answer.

The warlock sobered, brushing a lock of hair back over his shoulder. "The situation is grimmer than many realize. Had you no idea, paladin, of the brutal sway the Scourge hold over the Ghostlands? The Forsaken despise the Scourge as much as we do, and their aid is sorely needed to reclaim our lost ancestry." He hefted his staff in his right hand, and then sighed heavily. "Of course no one in Silvermoon breathes a word of how desperate we are for help."

"Knight-Lord Bloodvalor sent me to aid in any way I could, Arcanist…?"

"Vandril." The warlock's face softened, and Galen saw how the strain creased his brow only as it relaxed. "Thank you, paladin. We need all able-bodied sin'dorei to come to the aid of their people."

Vandril pointed the way up the hill to the command post, a round building where several rangers lingered outside, discussing the best way to attack groups of starving ghostclaw panthers that hunted the citizens. An undead warrior was sitting on the steps, and next to him, a Forsaken priest leaned against the wall. He paid them no mind; no matter how the Forsaken were helping to retake Quel'Thalas, it would not make any difference. They were undead and not to be trusted.

High Executor Mavren, he found, was also an undead, his blue-tinged skin half-eaten away, with glimpses of greyed bone showing through. He took the news thankfully, seeming not to notice Galen's discomfiture, and sent an elven runner with a message to Silvermoon.

Dame Auriferous stood in the middle of the room. She was stunningly beautiful, as all sin'dorei were, with the glowing green eyes of her people and thick, glossy auburn hair. She wore the traditional red of the blood elves, a reminder of all those that died in the Second War, and Galen wore his own red tunic and cape with similar sentiments. Never again would the zombie masses overwhelm them.

"You arrived quickly, paladin," she purred in a silky voice, one that spoke of creature comforts normally bypassed in a holy warrior's training. "We found the dead messenger with your conscript only last evening."

He took her in with both eyes, making no secret about his perusal of her curves. She had a body made for pleasure, and Galen had no doubt that many had experienced its delights. Her skin was pale, almost green in places, and Galen felt his libido stumble. Only repeated lapses in control of their magic addiction caused such color in a blood elf.

"I stand ready to cleanse the Scourge from our lands," he said, saluting her with his hand over his heart.

"Oh, the Scourge are not our immediate concern," she said, sounding mildly distracted.

"But it is good that you have arrived so quickly," she continued, "for I fear the Darnassians are ready to make their move."

Night-elves from the continent of Kalimdor. A flood of hatred surged through him, an ancient racial fire that was taught him at his mother's knee. He grit his teeth together. "How many are there?"

"A scout was able to bring back a count of twenty or so in a small group on Shalandis, to the west. They seem to be gathering strength for an initial skirmish." Her voice became tense with a discerning anger, and she clenched her fist, the green fire of fel-energy flaring in her eyes.

"There must be plans in their camp. Bring them to me and I'll reward you handsomely." Silver jingled in a purse at her sash, but there was a promise of seduction in her eyes, and Galen's lips quirked in a smile. "I look forward to it, my lady," he replied suavely.

He turned and swept out of the outpost, barely glancing at the undead outside, and walked out of Tranquillien toward the western coast.

The going was easy enough, and there were many Scourge that attempted to waylay him as he traveled the broken road over the Dead Scar. He dispatched them swiftly, his face souring as one of them splashed messily on his boots. With his sword, he cut them in half, carving his own path through the Dead Scar, and swearing to each one he felled that Quel'Thalas would have justice.

The swim to Shalandis, an island off the murloc-beset coast, was more trying, as his mail kept dragging him down. Only several moments along the beach, hidden away, provided him an opportunity to recoup his lost energies. He crept into the kaldorei camp, his skin prickling and heart racing. The night-elves went about their business, some restringing their bows, others sharpening blades. He wanted to charge blindly ahead and kill them all, slitting their purple throats before any had the chance to raise an alarm. It would be foolish, but the more he considered it, the more appealing it became. He crept forward, crawling ahead low in the grass, trying to formulate an order of attack. Suddenly, a movement at the edge of his vision made him pause.

To his horror, he saw a night-elf, her slender body fading into view as she dispelled her shadowmeld. Her silver-lit eyes were paired with a cruel smile. "Kill the defiler!" she screamed, and Galen leaped up, thrusting his sword through her chest, and delighting in the way the green light from his eyes lit her dying face. "Filthy night-elf bitch," he swore at her as he shoved her body off his blade onto the grass, and turned to face the other kaldorei that had come too late to her aid.

The men used staves and cudgels, and were no match for his sword alone, but the arrows and magic shot at a distance by the women were enough to give the edge to the brawny night-elf men. One landed a crushing blow to Galen's unarmored temple, and he was dazed for a moment, and then felt an arrow's tip burn his sword arm. He turned, throwing his other hand to cover the wound as it seeped blood, and the men brought all their weight behind their staves into his back. He made a strangled yell at the blinding pain, and fell to his knees, unable to breathe or even think beyond the constant blows that battered him from all sides. A dagger-tip found its way between his shoulder blades, and as he doubled over, one of their booted feet connected with his ribs, leaving him collapsed in the soft grass. He waited for the death blow.

It never came. A shield of light blunted the falling staff, and arrows bounced off it as the maddened night-elves tried again to kill their captured blood elf. Galen heard their outrage, and he tried to lift his head and find his benefactor, but found himself lacking the strength. He saw the dark red of his blood staining his hair as it fell over his face, and it took the fight out of him. The priest, whoever it was, could not save him; he was still losing blood too badly.

As if in response to his dwindling thoughts, a golden spell settled over him, the familiar cooling of healing magic numbing the bruises and arrow wounds. He sighed softly as the pain faded under the priest's magic, and then slung the shallow-bit dagger out of his back with a shake of his shoulders. A gasp wheezed out of him when the blade fell free, but the priest was already healing him again, and this time, the dagger's ugly mark was closed as well.

The night-elves stood back as their dead blood elf stood up, having realized that the shield thwarted all their efforts, but never having the sense to look for the priest who kept the shield up. He could not see his savior over the burly men, but he called out, "My thanks, priest!"

"Thank me when you've killed them all, paladin!" came the reply in a hoarse female yell; she was at some distance away to avoid detection. The night-elves turned their heads toward her, and Galen took advantage of their distraction to decapitate two of them from behind the shield.

To her credit, the priest never let the shield drop for more than a few moments, and any blows that landed while the shield was down were quickly healed. She was a good healer, and with her help, he laid waste to the kaldorei, leaving their bodies crumpled in broken heaps around him. He spotted the one with the dagger sheath at her waist and spit on her dead face as he walked to take the plans from the tents on the other side of the island.

With the scrolls firmly in his possession, he walked back to find his priest and give his thanks. As he crossed the clearing, he heard a soft cough from one of the hollow tree trunks at the clearing's edge. He turned, and found the priest sitting inside the tree. Her long white robe was muddied at the knees, and she seemed to be propped up. Within a few strides, before he could even make her out clearly, he knew why; her mana was totally exhausted. She had no smell of magic about her at all.

Except… for that magic. He was brought up short as he approached the tree and recognized the faint magical aura that pervaded her body. The Plague of Blight, a magical disease which caused undeath. It was faint, but there, hovering about her like a moth. She surprised him by having no smell of death about her at all, no odor of decay, as he had expected from being so close to one of her kind. She smelled faintly of seagrass, a sweet, sandy smell, not at all unpleasant. She smiled at him weakly, and he knelt next to her, determined not to let his thanks go unpaid.

She was beautiful, or had been, in life, with fine features and full lips made grey-green by her changed blood. Her pupils had long ago vanished with the Blight; only featureless black orbs occupied her eye sockets now. Her hair must have once been brown or blonde, but it was now a shock of teal that stood up and out from her head. Her skin was an appalling ashen white, and her bones, dove grey, showed plainly at the elbows and near her wrists.

Galen wordlessly took a skin from his bags and offered it to her, watching as she pulled the cork out and drank of the refreshing water greedily. The smell of magic returned to her slowly. When she offered the skin back to him, he raised his hand to wave her off. "You need it more than I do."

"Thank you, paladin." Her voice was sweet and soft, and she tilted her head back, resting it against the wood. He realized with a start that she was the undead priest that had lingered outside the command post. Why had she trailed him? They were natural enemies, or at least, she was his natural enemy. But was he hers?

"You followed me from Tranquillien." His statement held a ring of accusation, and she nodded in reply.

"I was the scout who found the Darnassian camp," she murmured, her voice gaining strength. "They sent you alone, and I knew that wouldn't be enough."

"I have confidence in my skills as a warrior," Galen said defensively.

"I had confidence in my skills as a healer," she snapped back, "But my mana was totally drained. If you'd been killed, there would have been nothing I could have done." She looked down at the half-drunk skin, clutched in thin white fingers. "And then the night-elves would have won." The sounds of evening filled what would have been an otherwise awkward silence.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Galen said finally. She was having a strange effect on him; he felt obligated to soothe her and make her feel better. It was strange for him to feel such concern for anyone, much less an undead. For a brief moment, his arrogance and self-importance fell away, and he was concerned for the feelings of another sentient human being. "You saved my life. For that, I am eternally grateful." He paused.

"Even to an undead." His reckless mouth tore ahead, and the words were out before he had the sense to stop himself.

She smiled. "Just because I do not live does not mean I wish others to die, paladin."

Galen was inwardly surprised. He had expected a vindictive nature, or something at least mildly hateful, but she was a well-spoken priestess, gentle and self-deprecating in spite of her skill. "You must not call me 'paladin'. I should be addressed properly," he said haughtily, with a heavy wink.

A ghost of a smile played at her lips. "What shall I call you, then?"

He took her hand from her lap, seeing that she did not have the bone-spike phalanges of some undead. Her skin was smooth and chilled, and felt like marble as he pressed his lips chastely to the back of her hand. "Galen Silverdawn, at your service."

Her smile grew wider, and no cracks erupted in her decaying skin, as he had half-expected they would. "Tamsin Hartwell, my lord," she replied, inclining her head demurely.

Galen smiled at her and ran his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance."

Tamsin was at once coquettish and shy, her black eyes both direct and evasive. The mystery of her was intriguing. Galen was beginning to discover that the Forsaken, or at least, this Forsaken, was not quite what he had made them out to be.

xXx


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the game that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

"Are you strong enough to make the trip to town?" Galen's concern was borne out of the thanks he owed her, or so he told himself. She nodded slowly, and took his proffered hand as she got to her feet. Galen was about a head taller than she was, even though he was only average height for a blood elf. Only after he was confident she was in top form, did they start the long trek back to Tranquillien. He lead the way and she stood back as he cut a safe path through the grimscale murlocs that were waiting for them on the beach, employing her considerable holy talents toward keeping him in fighting condition. Her magic was powerful, and though not arcane, it was a soothing balm on his fevered need for mana.

Once the way was clear, they found themselves on the deserted roads of the Ghostlands. The fiends kept their distance from the lighted paths, and without having to fight for their lives, conversation was an easy distraction.

"How did you….?" Galen paused, wondering if the subject of death was taboo.

"Die?" She shrugged as they walked, avoiding an upthrown cobble. "The plague came. We all died." She looked down at her feet and then back up at him, a half-smile on her grey lips. "Some of us just didn't stay dead."

"What's it like? Dying, I mean," he added.

The Blood Elves had twice lost the source of their power; first at the Well of Eternity, and then at the Sunwell, as Arthas corrupted the fount with his foul necromancy. Their immortality was forfeit, and most blood elves, while vehemently hating the undead, were obsessed with their own limited time in Azeroth. Finding ways to extend it occupied many of the more educated minds in Quel'Thalas.

"It isn't as bad as you think," she said cryptically. "Death isn't the bad part. It's what happens to make you die that is unpleasant." No matter how he pressed her, she would not elaborate further, and eventually he dropped the subject, settling into a gait that complimented hers.

"What about you?" she asked. "How is it that a holy warrior does work for the Horde?"

He shrugged. "Lord Bloodvalor receives his missives from the Regent, and I receive my orders from him." He ducked to avoid a low branch over the path. "The why is not my concern; I just go and fight where I'm told."

She nodded, but something in the way she directed her head told him she was not completely satisfied with the answer he gave her.

"We're not really holy anyway," he continued. "The Order doesn't work through the traditional avenues of Light."

"I know," Tamsin said, but she didn't elaborate.

The paths fell away behind them, and all too soon, they were upon the hardscrabble buildings of Tranquillien. She turned to him, her face nigh unreadable to him. "Thank you for your help, Galen."

Galen regretfully realized that he had gotten used to the pleasant company she offered on their walk back from the coast. "It is I who owe you thanks," he said, bowing to her. "If you ever have a need, call on me. I do not forget my debts."

Tamsin chuckled, although the softness of her voice made it more of a giggle, a sound that Galen never thought he should hear from an undead. "I shall keep that in mind, paladin." Her soft voice was touched with mirth, and her full lips twitched with restrained laughter. She backed away, and then turned, walking toward the bat handler. Galen watched her go for a moment, feeling something strange tug at him, and then he turned, walking toward the command outpost.

Galen found Dame Auriferous conferring with High Executor Mavren. Her silky auburn hair was tucked back behind one slender ear, and she was bent over a schematic of one of the nearby celestial Sanctums, her décolletage presented invitingly against the tools of war. There was a certain masculine satisfaction in Mavren's face, his ghostlit eyes offered the choicest of views. Galen ahemmed politely, and Auriferous' face turned toward him with a pointed eagerness. He felt suddenly like a deer caught in the time-nulling gaze of the nightsaber, but managed to shake off any sort of common sense that might suddenly have seized him.

As he handed over the scrolls of plans to an elated Auriferous, Mavren eyed him with shrewd approval. "I'll be damned if you didn't find a good one in this paladin, Auriferous," he rumbled, his deep voice speaking of a life of privilege before undeath. He smiled at Galen, who blanched at the grisly grin. Mavren had been dead a long time, and his state of decay was far more advanced than the priest whose company he'd just parted.

"I am quite impressed with you, Silverdawn," he continued, standing from his small chair by the table of maps and holding out a grey and bony hand. "Though you're alive, you serve your people courageously." Galen grasped the skeletal paw and shook it, inwardly panicking at the half-cold bones that gripped his hand firmly. "If you ever have need of us, the Forsaken will come to your aid."

"Thank you, sir, for your commendations," Galen said, relieved when their hands fell apart. His skin wanted to crawl into a corner. He turned to look at Auriferous, who had spread the plans out on the table for Mavren. Her eyes were smoldering, and she smiled, a smile that a sensible man would regard as dangerous, but Galen was hardly a sensible man. "Mavren's praise is certainly enviable, but perhaps we could fatten his pocket as well, High Executor?"

"Of course, Auriferous, give him a reward for his fine work," he said offhandedly. The undead warrior was already poring over the plans, and for a moment, Galen envied his focus. Then Auriferous said in an overly loud voice, "I don't think I have enough silver; I'll have to go to my room to fetch some more," and walked out, looking over her shoulder at Galen with a heated glance. Galen excused himself hurriedly, barely hearing Mavren's grunt of assent on his way out the door.

The rooms of a frontier town inn left much to be desired in the way of privacy. Somehow Auriferous had managed to get a small room to herself, barely larger than a closet. It was hung with red drapes, in the style of Silvermoon City's inns, although Galen had no doubt that she had affected this change on her own. He didn't have much more time to reflect on the décor of the tiny boudoir; Auriferous crushed herself against him and his thoughts went in an entirely different direction.

"You have no idea how long it's been," she said, her breathing already coming fast. She tugged at the fastenings of his armor and cape, her fingers unfamiliar with the trappings of a warrior. Her eagerness was infectious, and he found himself frustrated with the slowness of his armor's removal. At last, she pulled it free and gently put it on the floor, mindful of the noise his chestplate would make on the stone.

She kissed him at last, a bruising, demanding kiss that surprised him. She was needy and wanton, her hands roaming over him, unable to settle on one place to touch. Her nails raked his skin as she all but tore his shirt off him, making a satisfied noise as she took in his lean, muscled body. "You're everything I'd hoped for," she breathed, leaning close and seeming to scent him, breathing in the smell of steel and sweat.

Galen was getting over the initial shock of her forwardness, and as she leaned in, he caught her chin in one hand, tilting her head to the side and nibbling gently down the side of her neck, smiling to himself as she gasped and clutched at him. She was doing a good job of working herself up, and he had barely started.

Galen slid his fingers down over her collarbone and then down the side of her breast, watching as her nipples peaked under her thin vestments. He smirked at the small whimper that escaped her as he left her breast and slid lower over her bare midriff. He looked at her, eyebrows slightly raised at her pebbled flesh.  
"Goosebumps, my lady?" he murmured.

"Don't sound so surprised," she moaned, her hands clenching into fists as he lazily stroked her hip. "You're the first real man that's been here in too long," she ground out, fidgeting as Galen's hand slipped under the waistband of her skirt and slid to the soft flesh of her buttocks, and then up her back, sliding under the edge of her vest and lifting up to pull it over her head. He hummed his appreciation for her smooth skin and the soft, breathy noises of anticipation and urging she made as he stripped her.

Her breasts fell out of her robes, her pink nipples darkening to coral as they were fully hardened by the cool air. Galen enjoyed seeing her perfectly coifed hair mussed by the removal of her top, flyaway strands falling into her face. She slid her hands around his waist, pulling at his mail leggings with shaking fingers, and he undid the belt that held them, listening to the links hiss in a pile on the ground around his ankles. His undergarments were similarly disposed of, and by the time he was naked, Auriferous was standing near her bed, her skirt in a heap on the floor.

She stepped forward to meet him, leaning up and wrapping her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed against him. Slowly, she slid her body down him, her nipples burning a path down his chest. Galen purred his approval, watching as she sank to her knees in front of him. His arousal was flush with heated blood, standing out from his body, and Auriferous reached down, wrapping her fingers around him and beginning to stroke him with a practiced hand. Galen closed his eyes and let his head fall back, his silvery hair swinging freely over his back. He gripped her shoulder as her technique had its desired effect, bringing him far too close to a point beyond which he might lose control. "Enough," he said hoarsely, looking down at her face, which was painted with animal lust. Defiance burned in her green eyes. Keeping her gaze locked with his, she moistened her lips and then leaned forward to touch them gently to the tip of his erection.

With a growl, he hauled her up off her knees and threw her to the bed. She giggled, an airy laughter that didn't match the devilish look on her face. He slid between her raised knees, sliding a sword-roughened hand over the soft curls on her mons. Galen lowered his eyes, watching her through the veil of his lashes. Auriferous wiggled, moving her hips up under his hand, pleading with her body for him to continue. "Don't tease me," she begged, and he smiled sardonically. "Of course not, my lady," he said, sliding one finger suddenly between her swollen labia, pressing and stroking in an agonizing pattern. "I live to serve," he said softly, though it was lost in her loud moan. Galen found the small nub of flesh at the beginning of her cleft, and it stood proudly out from under its hood, offering itself up to the sweet torture. His vain competitiveness began to thrill to the game of delaying her climax. She was more than willing, and her back arched up off the bed as she strained toward her orgasm. Galen's fingers worked her slowly, refusing her the release she sought. Her moans of pleasure rose in frequency and pitch. His body ached, and the longer she stretched out her build to orgasm, the more heated his skin grew. At last, when he thought he could handle no more, he heard her cry, "Enough!"

He looked down at her, her breasts heaving with every gasp for air, her arcane-fired eyes gleaming. "Shall I continue?" he asked, flicking a fingertip across her clitoris.

"No," she said, a little too suddenly. "No, I want to have you properly," she corrected, her breathless voice sending Galen's nerves into a twitchy sort of overdrive.

"Then have me you shall," he said huskily, moving between her raised knees and lifting her until his straining cock was in line with her slit. Galen pressed forward, listening to her suck in a gasp, barely keeping himself in check. She was small, but her body was more than wet enough, and he glided in and out of her effortlessly for the first few strokes.

It was only after she hooked her legs around him at the waist that he began to feel his own climax building. He thrust into her several times, and her walls closed down on him, creating heavenly friction that threatened the seat of his control. She was crying out as he rocked into her, her stomach muscles trembling as she writhed underneath him. Her eyes suddenly widened and before she could open her mouth Galen covered it with a harsh kiss, taking her scream of release into him. His hips pumped into her faster through her trembling climax and they rode her orgasm out in near silence. Only when he felt her thighs relax around him did he let his lust take control of him, leaning back and fucking her mercilessly. She laid back with a satisfied look on her feline features, watching him as he slammed into her. A few moments more and he came at last, spilling himself inside her with a groan he couldn't quiet.

He collapsed on top of her, panting his exhaustion into her hair. His muscles trembled in confusion, his powerful orgasm having drained his stores of strength. At least, that's what he believed, but a soft tingle at the edge of his mind snapped him out of his post-sex afterglow. He looked at the woman in his arms, finding the fel-energy in her eyes flaring. He realized with abrupt horror that she was sucking his mana away, feeding her addiction with magic stolen from his soul.

**oOo**

Tamsin sat outside Silvermoon City, quietly watching the occasional passerby. The bat handler had told her to wait here, that there were some herbs she had dried that she might part with in exchange for the healing of her son. Priests were relatively rare in these parts, she'd found, with many succumbing to the promise of power that the paladin Order represented. She'd been happy to heal him, for free even, and only accepted the herbs reluctantly, realizing that the bat handler was a proud woman who did not want to accept charity. The woman approached, pressing a small green pouch into Tamsin's hands.

"Thank you again, priest. I never would have expected such help from an undead," she said, looking at the blood elves that surrounded her. "Never thought we'd have to look to outsiders for help," she said sadly, before realizing that she was speaking to one of the outsiders. Her face looked panicked, but Tamsin smiled and waved it off.

"You needn't worry. I am sworn to help those in need regardless of their race." She looked down at the pouch. "Thank you for this," she said, gesturing with the leather pouch.

The bat handler smiled and dipped her head in a gesture of thanks. "You're most welcome, lady priest. My home is always open to you." She lifted her face up as a bat careened in toward the stocks. Tamsin narrowed her eyes, recognizing the male blood elf astride the bat.

Galen fairly fell off the bat as it landed, which earned him a harsh look from the bat handler. He looked at Tamsin weakly, and leaned heavily on her arm. His mail was haphazardly thrown on, and he was deathly pale. "I apologize," he said in a thin voice. "We seem to meet under the worst circumstances."

"Don't worry," Tamsin soothed, her black eyes narrowing. "I'll take care of everything." She already served the Light, even in undeath, so assuming the mantle of healer was nothing new to her. No matter how handsome her patient was, one more wouldn't matter. Galen finally nodded weakly and leaned on her as they walked into the City, grateful for her strength.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the game that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Galen opened his eyes, staring blearily up at a ceiling draped with blue silks and organza. He recognized the charmed coronas of the Silvermoon City inn; they were enchanted to drop stardust on the bed's dreaming occupant.

"You're awake."

He turned his head to face the speaker, finding Tamsin sitting at his bedside. Her black eyes were blank and unreadable, but he thought he detected a note of relief in her voice. "How long have I been sleeping?" he mumbled, trying to sit up. His meager strength got him halfway there before Tamsin's bony fingers pressed him back down into the bed. He was almost relieved, and his eyes drifted closed again before his head reached the pillow.

Tamsin smiled at the sleeping elf. "Rest, paladin. Azeroth can survive without you for another day." He was asleep again before she finished the sentence, and she felt his exhaustion reach her as well. He hadn't seemed to notice that he was unclothed; armor could not be worn in a bed, of course, and his half-delirious ramblings as his drained mana began to take its toll had not helped. At last, she had used a small vial of sleeping draught to stop his madness; he had been sleeping normally now for several hours.

The temptation to look over her charge was nearly irresistible. Her removal of his clothes during his initial bed rest had been very impersonal, but now, with plenty of time on her hands to think about it, she found herself wishing she had paid more attention. On the one hand, she was his healer, the one who was nursing him back to health. On the other, the paladin stirred a sleeping desire in her, a longing to spend time with someone, something she hadn't felt since she was alive. At last, she had satisfied her curiosity with a quick fluff of his sheets, catching just enough of a glimpse to tantalize, and not enough to fully disclose.

The Undead priest had garnered more than a few stares as she entered Silvermoon City with a half-dead paladin leaning on her; she knew that Galen was probably too out of it to notice. The Forsaken benefitted, or suffered from, depending on the speaker, the keen senses that were denied living things. She saw the tightening of a Guardian's grip around his swallowblades, heard the small gasp of disgust of one of the Silvermoon vendors, felt the distrustful stares as surely as screws tightening into her back. Even at the alchemists' supply, those who also plied her trade were fearful of her, and only the master alchemist would deal with her. He had been cold, but nonjudgmental, and she thanked him graciously. It was tough being an undead in a city that was half-destroyed by the Scourge. She wondered if there was anything the Forsaken could ever do that might silence their detractors once and for all. _Besides kill them, of course,_ she added to herself.

The next morning found him much more rested. He felt lucky to have escaped with his wits, and thanked the heavens he had noticed before it had gone on too long. Those who became Wretched, mastered by their addictions, often fed on others around them, be they wyrm, animal or other elves. In the past, it had been shown that if a Wretched fed on one with a mana addiction, then the victim all too often descended into the ranks of the Wretched himself.

He felt the need almost as soon as he awoke, the burning desire for mana that preyed on his thoughts. Tamsin was still sitting next to him, seeming as if she hadn't moved since the day before. Her black eyes watched him anxiously and he immediately grew concerned.

"Didn't you sleep?"

"A little." Another cryptic smile touched her face. "You forget that I am undead and do not need sleep."

"So why sleep at all?"

"It's a force of habit." She shrugged and reached out to feel his hands, narrowing her dark eyes as she took his fingers. "You're sweating on your palms."

Galen looked at her, smelling the magic on her, the dusty smell of the magical Plague, the fresh, cool fragrance of her healing Light. It sang to him, a siren's song, luring him with the promise of relief and normalcy. It was only a little mana, and she was an undead, she didn't need it like he _needed_ it. She would be fine without mana for a while, and then things would be back to normal; he would go on with his life and she with hers, and no one ever need know. It was only a little mana.

"Galen, what are you doing?" Her voice had changed from the soothing murmur of a healer to a harder, suspicious tone.

He realized his hand was outstretched toward her, and he snatched it back as if burned. "Nothing."

She stood, raising her hands over him, and then a chilling glow settled on him, soothing the mana fever that had maddened him. He breathed out slowly as the need faded, and looked at her, ashamed of himself. "A moment of weakness. Forgive me."

"You need not ask forgiveness of me. We are all weak beings." And he heard the truth in her voice, without judgment, and he wondered what her weakness was that she could hand out clemency so freely.

Tamsin, for her part, had been watching for the signs of withdrawal in the elf, warned to it by the innkeeper, who had kindly offered to procure a small mana wyrm for his use when he awoke. Tamsin now regretted her refusal, if only because seeing someone in the grip of a force beyond their control was both frightening and humbling. She hoped that the skeletons in her closet had enough sense to stay dead.

"I take it your business in the Ghostlands is concluded?" Her question was innocent enough, but Galen heard her asking after his slapdash appearance on the bat. He nodded. "I don't think there is a reason for me to return," he replied evasively. "In fact, I need to go see Lord Bloodvalor," he said, sitting up and making as if he was going to get out of bed. As the sheet fell away from his bared chest, he became fully aware of his nudity.

"Did you undress me?" he ventured cautiously.

"Of course. You were fevered and weak." There was no hint of scandal in her words. Why did he feel a little disappointed?

"My thanks again. You have taken care of me twice now, having barely known me."

"It has always been my job to take care of those who can't, or won't take care of themselves."

"I can take care of myself," Galen snorted, but he couldn't find an excuse to explain his weakened state on the bat. After grasping at straws for a moment, he scowled and snatched the shirt she offered him.

Tamsin looked amused, her cheeks rounding as she demurely quashed her grin. "Of course."

oOo

"That is… unfortunate." Knight-Lord Bloodvalor frowned as he took in the fullness of Galen's report. His long eyebrows drew together in a frown. "I apologize, Galen, for sending you into such a perilous situation."

"You had no way of knowing, my Lord," Galen said, excusing the incident, although he was barely recovered from it. Tamsin was waiting outside, despite his protestations; she insisted that she would not leave him until she was sure he was recovered fully. Galen wasn't sure how to react to that. At first, he was still very uneasy around her; waking nude in the presence of the undead was more than enough stress for him. And on the other hand, she seemed so gentle, so in tune with the Light she wielded. _She might be both a curse and a treasure,_ he thought.

"Mmm, indeed," the dark-haired paladin grumbled, "It makes things rather difficult for me. Dangerous as it is, we need Auriferous down there. She has a rapport with the Forsaken that is hard to replace." And though Galen was initially outraged that such a creature remain in power, he could not argue with the champion; his point was well made. Those who went to the Ghostlands willingly were few and far between, and Auriferous seemed to enjoy both the seclusion and the power.

"There's nothing I can do, Galen, to restrain her until it becomes more serious," Bloodvalor said, "But I will change your assignment." There was a subtle nod of his head over Galen's shoulder, and Galen turned his head to look.

Tamsin was slowly pacing outside the Paladin Headquarters, her hands laced together behind her back. The morning sun caught her hair, glimmering in the teal strands, and her skin was made so white as to appear to glow. The bones in her arms didn't look nearly as grotesque when so lit by the sun, and she tilted her face back, looking heavenward. Galen whipped his head back around, looking at his champion, who speared him with a knowing smile. "I have heard that the Regent is looking for assistance that might be right up your alley," he said.

"My Lord…!"

"I am confident in your abilities, Silverdawn." He handed the younger paladin a small scroll, neatly tied with a gold-edged red ribbon. Galen took the scroll, and the champion's sword-roughened hand remained extended. Galen clasped him about the forearm, feeling the other man's fingers wrap around his arm at his elbow, and the firm grip that accompanied the handshake.

"_Al diel shala_," the champion said, and Galen nodded sharply.

"I will not fail you, my lord."

Tamsin fell in step with him as he strode out of the headquarters, squinting against the brightness of the sun. "You look… purposeful," she commented, as they covered the ground toward Farstriders' Square.

"I am. My Lord Bloodvalor has sent me to see the Regent Lor'themar Theron. There may be something I can do for him." He held up the scroll with its red ribbon and saluted Tamsin with it, his jaunty gait making her rush to keep up. _As if his ego needed any more polishing_, thought Tamsin.

"It sounds like you're being sent off to run an errand no one else wanted to do," Tamsin remarked snidely, and Galen stopped mid-step, staring at her. She chuckled and grabbed his arm, tugging it. "Don't get bent out of shape. It just means he knows he can count on you even when the job isn't something like brushing your hair."

"I suppose," Galen huffed, still only slightly appeased by the addendum.

"Where is your Regent?" she asked, and Galen paused. An Undead walking into the Court of the Sun? Right up to the throne room and into the presence of the Regent himself? He looked at her again, and the sunlight dappled across her face as they climbed the stairs to the Court of the Sun. He gritted his teeth. It might not be advisable, or even safe, but he was not about to refuse her after she had saved his life. _Twice_, an annoying voice in the back of his head reminded him.

The Court of the Sun was a magnificent place at midday, banners of red streaming from balconies and the tops of walls, their golden glyphs shimmering even in the shade. The Palace was near the end of the Court, and their walk toward it was enjoyable, but even Galen did not miss some of the stares Tamsin got. The Forsaken Priest either did not notice the vitriolic glances her way, or she did not care. Galen fervently hoped it was the latter.

Tamsin had indeed noted the glares directed toward her, but she chose to ignore them. Let one of them fall ill, and she would still heal them; it was her calling, and she could refuse it no more readily than a blood elf could refuse mana. Her boots made no sound on the red carpeting leading up into the palace; Galen jingled softly with every step.

The Guardians did not move to intercept them as they walked past, but as they entered the Regent's chamber, the small scrape of a blade against the wall announced the presence of two of the palatial Guardians; their swallow-blades crossed before them.

"Let us pass," Galen said in an annoyed voice.

The blades remained crossed, and one Guardian turned his head to the sunken floor beyond. Curtained by white gossamer, the Regent was in conference with one of his advisors, his pale head bent over a set of plans.

"I said, let us pass!" Galen repeated loudly, and Tamsin put her hand on his shoulder. "Galen," she said apprehensively, "Maybe we should come back another time." Her dark eyes darted to the face of the Guardian nearest her, and she saw only distrust and hatred, his strong jaw set and lips pursed until they were bloodless.

He lifted the scroll and waved it at her. "Don't be silly, Tamsin, we have official business-Hey!" he shouted as one of the Guardians plucked the scroll from his hand.

"Give that back! That's strictly between me and the Regent!" The offending Guardian passed it off to another Guardian, who walked boldly between the translucent silks. The swallow-blades grazed each other, their threatening ring echoing in the large space. Galen glared at the Guardian, who stared back at him, nonplussed.

A thin hand parted the curtains, and Lor'themar Theron stepped through them, his red and gold armor looking decidedly overworn. His face was tired, but somehow, he still carried himself proudly. He held in his hand the unraveled scroll, red ribbon discarded. His keen eyes missed little in his inspection of their persons, but he was especially attentive to Galen's companion; his eyes lingered on Tamsin, a little too long for her taste. At last, he raised a hand, and the swallow-blades lifted.

"What brings you here, paladin?"

"Knight-Lord Bloodvalor sent me with that scroll, your Excellency." Galen dipped his head, and after a moment, Tamsin followed his lead, bobbing a curtsey.

"Few blood elves travel with undead," Lor'themar said plainly, turning his green eyes on Tamsin again.

"I am a healer, your Excellency," Tamsin said, cutting off Galen before he could interject.

"But still an undead." The phrase was delivered dismissively, as if her value as a healer would never be enough to make up for her undeath.

"I did not choose what I am, your Excellency," Tamsin snapped. The Regent digested this small outburst, and then looked down at the scroll again. "You were sent by Lord Bloodvalor, you said?"

"Yes, your Excellency," Galen replied, sliding a look at Tamsin under lowered lashes. Her breathing was distressed and she trembled, but whether it was from fear or anger he could not tell.

"Why would Lord Bloodvalor send you here? He must know that I am extremely busy." Lor'theron came across as annoyed, but Tamsin wondered if he really was, or if he was just playing with them.

"He said that you might have work for me to do that would be right up my alley, Excellency," Galen said, and he tried to read Lor'themar's reaction. At first, the Regent's face was blank, but then it brightened with sudden understanding.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, stepping between the two and welcoming them into his sanctum. "You _can_ help me, a great deal!" Galen looked relieved, but Tamsin remained stoic.

"I see now why Bloodvalor sent you," Lor'theron said, glancing briefly at Tamsin. "Your rapport with the Undead will be of great service to you in Lordaeron." With this, the Regent stepped into an adjoining room, which was lit by a diffuse crimson light.

"Lordaeron?" Galen swallowed, hoping he had misheard.

"Indeed," said the Regent, walking the unlikely pair up a set of spiral stairs to a large red orb in a golden stand. In the red light of a translocation orb, Galen thought the Regent looked absolutely diabolical. Regent Theron smiled broadly and handed him a small packet of paper, before clapping him on the back and walking down the stairs. "The Undercity awaits you, paladin!"


End file.
